


who are we to run

by sessile



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gore, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sessile/pseuds/sessile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Lecter is nothing but an attentive host. And Will Graham is nothing but a captive audience. (Post-Savoureux.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	who are we to run

Will's dreams are settled now.

He dreams of childhood, hours spent out in the Gulf, nothing but the wind and the gentle rock of waves on the boat to be heard. He dreams of his old beat in New Orleans, a hot, muggy day, walking past the projects and not driving, because he was trying to be a presence of good, and not the source of steady, uncompromising fear and hatred in the eyes of those around him. And he dreams of home, his home, the quiet snuffling of the dogs, the constant rhythm of metal on plastic, metal on metal as he worked on his engines, and his dreams of endless days like these, with nothing to see but what was before his own eyes.  
  
He can sleep and breathe because he has his answers now. Now all he has to do is wait for anyone's ear to listen.  
  
They let him have the newspaper. Not the five from the surrounding areas he'd asked for, just the one from the city. He reads the deaths, he waits for the patterns. He knows what to look for now.  
  
No one to hear him right now, though. Jack is too ashamed - the endless blame and self-recrimination lines his face, makes it hard for him to look at the man he'd sent in and he'd broke. Alana is grieving, he knows. She will visit, just not yet.  
  
No one but Dr. Lecter.  
  
-  
  
"How are you today, Will?"  
  
They sit in folding chairs opposite each other, prison bars between them. He had pulled his chair away from his desk automatically when Hannibal had reached for his.  
  
Will plays the game because he has to. He has to meet Hannibal head-on. He has to be there to see.  
  
"They say I'm almost completely recovered. The inflamation neglible." At Hannibal's persistent half smile: "But you know this. They've allowed you access to my medical files."  
  
"I have to coordinate with the medical staff on your treatment plan, yes."  
  
"They trust you completely, don't they? They'd allow you to prescribe me something, if you deemed it necessary."  
  
A slight nod, encouraging. "Yes. They would."  
  
Will scoffs and shakes his head.  
  
"So, Dr. Lecter, after my, what - psychotic break? Do you recommend anything?"  
  
"That remains to be seen, good Will. We have yet to determine if your compulsion to commit these murders was due to your disease - or if your disease exacerbated an already existing desire. "  
  
Just wind him up. See how far he will go.  
  
" _I know who I am_ ," he repeats, as he's repeated to Hannibal, to others, to himself, over and over again in the unforgiving dank in his cell.  
  
Hannibal's half smile has turned wider, exposing the points of his teeth. "Yes. You do. Which is why you're so concerned."  
  
-  
  
The murders begin again. He see the front page headline, just the words "BODY FOUND", and he knows.  
  
With nothing else to do in his cell, he should be making the connections. What he knows about Hannibal. What he knows about the crimes.  
  
He should but he can't.  
  
Because there were no signs. There were no gestures, no sighs, no odd turns of phrase, no pointed looks that Will had marked away and told himself, this is strange.  
  
Just wan smiles. Warm meals. And gentle patience.  
  
That, more than anything, is everything. Will lays on his cot and thinks about Hannibal's endless, enveloping patience.  
  
-  
  
 _Will. Your fever is high. We should go now._  
  
 _The hand at his head is cool and dry, and Will holds it there, unyielding._  
  
 _Not yet. Not yet._  
  
 _There is a gentle stroke on his shoulder, and his hand slides gently out of Will's grasp. Hannibal leaves the room, and he thinks about how Alana will be expecting them soon for lunch. It's getting late and_  
  
 _"Alana."_  
  
 _"Hannibal. Will"._  
  
 _He goes to embrace her, and she is warm and soft, and it's windy in front of the building, but they will_    
  
"Will. Will." Hannibal's voice is quietly rousing him from his sleep, but Will senses another person there and -  
  
" _Will_."  
  
His heart seizes and he whips around to see Alana there, eyes too bright, with Hannibal right behind her.  
  
Will cannot remember the last time he was lividly angry. Scared, yes; fighting back on instinct, yes; desperate and determined, yes -  
  
But wanting to tear out someone's throat? He can't remember because he's not thinking about remembering at the moment. He's thinking about actually doing it, skin yielding under nail and trachea slowly collasping and popping and cracking -  
  
"Will?"  
  
Will shuts his eyes and catches his breath, and looks away from Hannibal to finally address Alana.  
  
-  
  
"You looked distressed the other day when I brought Alana by, Will."  
  
"You know what I was thinking."  
  
"Yes." A smile. "Yes, I do."  
  
"That doesn't make me like you, Hannibal."  
  
Hannibal nods but doesn't say anything. He's still smiling. He's waiting for Will to explain how.  
  
"I'm not going to do it. You're not going to read about my exploits in tomorrow's paper."  
  
"Well, not now. But soon. Eventually."  
  
"No," and his voice is shaking because the words are falling out, "no, because you don't get like this. You don't shake, you don't see red. Your pulse doesn't pound and there is no taste in your mouth of blood unless you put it there."     
  
A slight shrug. "I get mad. I get angry."  
  
Will laughs, baring his teeth. "Not like this. You don't dream about it. It doesn't consume you. You are only to consume others."  
  
"I didn't consume you, Will."  
  
He thinks, but doesn't say, _No, but you want to_.  
  
-  
  
 _The body of 34-year-old Michelle Walker was found at her home today, the apparent victim of the serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper. Neighbors discovered the body in the backyard of the Baltimore native, mutiliated and missing several internal organs. The victim was last seen the night before at a local PTA meeting at Towson High School. If anyone has information leading to the capture of the Chesapeake Ripper, please contact local police at -_  
  
  
 _The discovery of the body of 41-year-old David McCutcheon marks the 11th suspected victim of local serial killer the Chesapeake Ripper. The attributed murders, which appeared to have begun in the summer of 2010, are all hallmarked by the surgical removal of internal organs. Police have to yet to determine any potential suspects, with local law enforcement coordinating their search with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and -_  
  
  
 _Not only has the Chesapeake Ripper claimed a new victim for his - or her? - steadily increasing body count, but also the greatest minds of the FBI. Will Graham, as long-time readers may know, was once one of the FBI's best and brightest, a former instructor turned special agent tasked with bringing in serial killers like the Ripper - only to become a possible serial killer himself. Graham has been charged with the copycat murders of the recently infamous Minnesota Shrike, and also with the murders of Gretchen Madchen and neurologist Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, previously thought to be unrelated -_  
  
-  
  
"I see you've been reading, Will."  
  
"Oh, this?" Will turns in his seat and grabs the newspaper articles off his desk. "Have you been keeping up with the news? I know you can sometimes be busy with your practice, and may have not heard about the Chesapeake Ripper's recent crimes." He shoves the articles through the bars of the cell. When Hannibal doesn't take them but instead continues to merely look at Will, he lets them flutter to the floor.    
  
"You're angry."  
  
"Of course I'm angry, you murderous sack of - "  
  
"Why are you angry?" When Will begins to sputter, Hannibal quietly interrupts him. "Is truly righteous indignation you feel? Or is it your impotency at the situation?" Hannibal settles in his seat. "Think you could help these poor victims if you were free?"  
  
Hannibal is enjoying himself. Will can see if from here, plain as day, even though the outward signs might merely be a posture that's a shade more erect, a twist of the mouth that's a bit more quirked, a glitter in the eyes that's a fraction more bright. Things he could have missed had he been less familiar with him, spent less hours and less weeks in his presence.  
  
"No," Will says, taking Hannibal's leading questions down their conclusion,  _his_ conclusion, "I'm angry because none of us could see what you were." It's debatable which Hannibal enjoys more: playing the game on Will, or Will playing the game himself. "I'm angry because I'd thought you were a friend," he says, and his voice cracks only a little.  
  
"More than that, Will."  
  
"I'm angry because you were a friend."  
  
Hannibal's features have softened. Will looks miserably on, as Hannibal trails more truths before them:  
  
"I _am_ your friend."  
  
-  
  
When Will wakes from his sleep, he see Jack sitting in Hannibal's chair, obviously having been there a while.

Beyond the near-persistent guilt and disappointment Jack usually has when around him, today a conflict is writ there, too.

Will can easily guess: "You want to ask me questions about the Ripper, but you question asking the suspected serial killer about it."

Will's smile isn't helping. Jack's eyes are like flints.

Instead Jack asks, "How are you feeling, Will."

"I'm fine by this point. Daily medication to maintain."

"Not physically."

_Oh_. He wasn't expecting that, and the more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't appreciate it.

" _Hannibal_ hasn't told you?"

"He tells me he's worried. He tells me that your talks are unproductive - which given that you nearly shot him in the face is no surprise, considering. He tells me he has a list of recommended psychiatrists that he hopes  _I_ can convince you to consider."

Will frowns. "I thought he was in charge of my treatment plan."

Jack gives him a look that's a mixture of pity and a judgment of idiocy.

"No. He's just trying to make this easier on you, Will."

_Jack really believes that_ , Will thinks, his teeth gritting.

"He's close, Jack. He's close to us all."

"Who, Hannibal? What are you talking - "

"I'm talking about the Ripper."  
  
-

Will comes to the bars when he sees that Hannibal is approaching.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm here to monitor your current state of well-being, in hopes that we can maintain it. Possibly improve it."

Hannibal remains standing, just barely within reach of Will, which he does, to test the distance. His fingers skim Hannibal's coat, the tips enough to register the exquisite quality of the wool.

Close. But not close enough to grab. To grasp and pull and slam his head into the bars of his prison.

"You appear... disturbed, Will."

"Just thinking."

"About...?"

"Why." Will stares at the corner of Hannibal's mouth. The good doctor, amazingly, has a small stain there. A tinge of red. He gestures at it, not meeting Hannibal's eyes, and mimics dabbing his own mouth. "You want me acquitted, don't you."

Will watches as Hannibal turns away from him to pat a handkerchief delicately there. "I don't think a facility such as this would be right for someone like you."

"And who am I, Dr. Lecter?"

"Someone who can see all the bounds of life and death. How far they extend. How deep they go. They run wide and forever. But you know that, Will."

Will reaches out again, and Hannibal allows himself to come a fraction closer, so Will can take a lapel in a thumb and forefinger.

"I only need to see, Hannibal. That's all. I don't have to walk there." He rests his head on the solid, almost sharp coolness of the bars in front of him. Hannibal drifts closer, enough that Will could take his arm if he wanted to.

_Stay here, Will_ , he tells himself, and God, does it sound like Alana. _Don't go so far you can't find your way back._

But he has to follow. It's the only way he'll know. And Hannibal _wants_ him to know.

"The last one was 17, perhaps," Hannibal murmurs quietly, resting a hand on the cell between them, his finger stroking the edge of metal. "Tall for his age, mouth set firm, made him look much older than he was. Asked for a light, and when I declined citing the lack of one, he glanced me over and muttered a slur. I caught him later in an alley where he was relieving himself against a wall."

Hannibal has gotten close. Very close. He is gazing intently on Will, his head listing a shade to the left. He knows Will is _listening_ , he's hearing what he's saying. He's waiting. He's waiting for Will to finish.

Will tilts his head up, to meet Hannibal's words with his own, have them pass from his breath to Hannibal's own, to have him draw it in.

"You would've taken your time with him. Stripped him naked, made him wait. Tongue first, then something to muffle the sound. Deep, deep gashes with that scalpel you still keep. Enough to expose muscle. Enough to widen by hand, slowly drawing your thumbs in and pulling." Will is shaking, and his voice has dropped down to a faint whisper, and he _sees_. "You do this for both thighs, his biceps, and finally his throat. Once he's passed out, you notice how beautiful the remnants of tears are on his skin. Once you open him up, how wonderful and young and healthy he is." Will shudders violently and shuts his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose, desperate to still his breath.

Hannibal runs a hand through Will's hair, and Will unthinkingly leans into it, hating himself and grateful. "Okay, Will. Enough," Hannibal whispers to him, shushing. "Enough for today." Will blindly reaches out, and soft, soft lamb's wool is under his hand. He relaxes by degrees under Hannibal's care.  

"Good, Will. Very good."

"Don't make me do this, Hannibal."

The fingers at his head continue to stroke back and forth, back and forth. "This is what you need, Will. This is your truer nature."

"It's not going to end well for you." Will opens his eyes and looks up at Hannibal, breathing shallowly.

Hannibal brushes the curls out of Will's face. "What makes you think that?"

"I'm not going to turn into you." A swallow. "I can't."

A fond smile. "Maybe. I'll have to see."


End file.
